


Shrinking Violet

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Stalker, case-fic, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-23 18:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10724892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Morse begins receiving packages of orchids, an expensive, unusual gift. Is it, as the station believes, merely a secret admirer in the offing? Or is it something more sinister?





	1. Prologue

It started on a call-out on a cold March morning. Sudden death in North Oxford: Mrs Hermione Rundle, a widow of thirty years’ standing living in a rambling Victorian house overlooking the river.

“Heart trouble,” Trewlove explained as Morse crossed the parlour threshold to see the elderly lady collapsed on an Indian rug. “Her son says she’s been on medication for years. Just toppled over on her way to turn on the radio and didn’t get up again, according to him. We’re just looking for an all clear.” She had her pad in hand but didn’t reference it as she spoke, reciting instead from memory.

“Alright. Thanks.” Morse stepped into the room, which looked as though it hadn’t been redecorated since the house was built. The walls were papered with William Morris, the furniture upholstered in chintz. Lace doilies abounded, as did fringed lamps and porcelain figurines. 

The dead woman was wearing a silk blouse and Harris tweed skirt with dark wool stockings and sensible black shoes. Her hair was set in stiff waves in an old-fashioned style; her grey face was blank as it stared up into death.

At her side knelt the pathologist, the Home Office equivalent of Charon, provided to ferry the dead to their final place of rest. 

“Morse.” He greeted the DC pleasantly from his place on the floor, pausing in the act of writing a note. “I doubt this one is yours.”

“Trewlove said heart trouble.”

“Prescription for Digoxin confirms that, as do the clinical signs. Cyanosis, raised jugular.” DeBryn indicated them, Morse’s eyes flashing down to follow the movement before looking up again at the wallpaper. “I’ve noted the name of her GP; I’ll run him to ground. Likely no need of a post-mortem.”

As he spoke Morse had stepped away and was now poking around the room. Examining photographs and cards on the mantelpiece, a newspaper laid down on the seat of a chair, an Agatha Christie sitting on a side table. He raised a hand to rub overtop of his ear, settling his curling hair down behind it. 

“It all seems in order. I’ll have a word with the son.”

DeBryn inclined his head. “Until we meet again, then. Hopefully under better circumstances.”

Morse smiled wryly. “But likely not.”

  
***

Edgar Rundle was a small, mouse-like man in his early thirties, with thin features and the pale grey skin of one who didn’t often see daylight. His brown eyes were rimmed with red, his long narrow nose running. He had a twisted handkerchief in his hand, which he repeatedly dabbed at his eyes.

“DC Morse,” said Morse, taking a seat opposite Rundle at the dining room table. The dining room was a small, rectangular room mostly filled with a table that could seat eight; the rest of the space was filled with a carved wooden sideboard holding a cut-glass sherry decanter half-full of sherry. The wallpaper was custard yellow, accented by some mounted china plates. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Rundle sniffled, looking down towards the end of the table blindly. “She’s suffered with her heart for years, but I never thought – I never imagined… what shall I do now, without her?” he seemed terrified by the prospect.

“Was she very ill?” asked Morse, sticking firmly to the facts.

“The doctor called it heart failure, but said she might live for years; that was some time ago now. I took proper care of her – ran all the errands, kept her from overexerting herself, brought her her pills every morning, faithful, and her sleeping drought at night.”

Morse nodded reassuringly. “I’m sure you did. Sometimes nature just takes its course. There’s no one to blame.”

Rundle turned to stare at him, blinking away tears. “Do you really mean that?”

“Of course. No one’s time is infinite; often there’s just nothing to be done. Bodies – hearts – fail. I’m sure you did your best for her.”

“Thank you. That’s – that’s very kind. Mr Morse, was it?” 

Morse gave a solemn twitch of his lips, a polite smile. “It’s nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a short one - maybe 2 chapters to go?


	2. Chapter 1

A frigid March blossomed into a milder, damp April, replete with thunder showers, tulips and pussy willows. The men of Oxford packed away their winter suits; the women turned their thoughts to summer frocks.

Morse, who owned only two suits and went without the luxury of dressing appropriately to the weather, turned up at Thursday’s doorstep on Monday morning as he did every Monday. This morning his shoulders were slightly dampened by the rain, his hair darker for it. 

“Anything new in?” enquired Thursday as he followed Morse out to the car, his hat set at an angle to fend off the rain. Morse waited until he was safely inside the Jag to reply.

“Nothing major. A jewellery store in Summertown was knocked off; the thieves got away with about a thousand quid worth of jewellery – Bannon from Night Watch has been over already. And there was an attempted break-in at a Cowley pawn shop; the owner lived above the shop and came down to frighten whoever it was off. Kids, he thought. Uniform’s been over to check the locks; not much in it.”

Thursday nodded. “Alright. Sounds as though we might have a reasonable week for once.”

  
***

“Been keeping secrets matey?” asked Strange by way of greeting as Morse preceded Thursday into the CID office. The rain was pattering against the windows, providing soft background noise to the harsher sounds of typewriters and ringing phones. First thing Monday mornings was always a busy time; weekend work to deal with, and no time as of yet for the week’s doldrums to set in.

Morse paused in the act of pulling off his coat, brow wrinkling in confusion. “Pardon?”

Strange nodded at his desk. “Someone’s sent you something. Admirer in the offing?” 

On top of the blotter centered over his desk rested a small soft-sided parcel of brown butcher’s paper, addressed to DC Morse in a neat hand and wrapped in twine. “Hastings brought it up; hand delivery from some kid,” continued Strange, clearly enjoying his role. By now Thursday had come over to examine the parcel, which Morse was turning over. 

“I can’t imagine what it is.” Morse picked up a pair of scissors from his desk and snipped the twine off, then slit open the end of the parcel. From inside the paper he withdrew a long, delicate sprig of purple flowers. “Flowers,” he said, dully, then looked inside the packaging; there was nothing else. 

“No note?” asked Thursday in a low tone; Morse shook his head. 

“Orchids; very expensive,” commented Trewlove, joining the group, cup of tea in hand. “Florists don’t often carry them. That might set you back a quid,” she added, nodding at the sprig in Morse’s hand. 

Strange whistled. “You’ve caught a live one this time. Not sure I know too many birds who’d send their bloke flowers, though.”

“I know a few who’d send a wreath,” commented Thursday, darkly. “But those aren’t grave flowers. Seen any like them before?”

Morse shook his head. “They really mean nothing to me.” He folded up the packaging and dropped it in the wpb. The flowers he made to hand to Trewlove. “Perhaps you can make better use of them.”

She pushed them back firmly. “I don’t need the rest of the lads getting curious about _my_ secret admirer. One between us is quite enough, thank you. I’ll fetch you a glass for them.” She turned and disappeared out the door into the hall. 

“Better start making use of that huge brain of yours and figure out who they’re from, Morse. Whoever she is, she won’t appreciate being spurned.” Strange gave him a knowing look and stepped back to his own desk. Leaving Morse alone with Thursday, who was now looking at him thoughtfully.

“There really isn’t anyone, sir,” said Morse, rather tiredly. 

“Perhaps they’re just a thank you. From someone you’ve helped. Lord knows there’s been enough of those.”

“Perhaps,” said Morse doubtfully, and set the flowers down.

A while later Trewlove returned with a tall glass filched from the canteen and put them in water on the edge of his desk.

  
***

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Paperwork, a few interviews, a visit to the pub. When the sun was beginning to set they called it a day, Morse running Thursday home in the Jag.

When they arrived, Thursday opened the door but stopped before getting out. “Thanks.” For a moment he paused, as if about to say something. But in the end he stepped out, gave Morse a dry smile, and closed the door.

  
***

Tuesday dawned with the sun struggling to be seen through thick grey clouds. Morse’s alarm woke him, his small sleeping space at the back of the flat still dark. He rose, washed and breakfasted on tea and toast, before opening the door to set out.

A small brown-paper parcel was sitting on his doorstep. For a moment he stared down at it. Then, with a kind of reluctance, he stooped to retrieve it, feeling the feather-light weight of it in his hands. He pulled the twine off and ripped open the end to produce from the interior a long sprig of purple orchids. 

The wrapping paper he folded up and slipped into his pocket. The orchids he left sitting on his stoop.

  
***

“You’re quiet this morning,” commented Thursday, as they drove through the streets of Cowley towards the station. The cloudy sky had opened up not long after they took to the road; the Jag’s wipers were going full bore to keep the glass clear. Water was rushing along the kerb in fierce narrow streams, splashing up where it met the Jag’s wheels.

Morse glanced over at his superior, and shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About anything in particular? Flowers?” he probed, when Morse didn’t answer immediately.

Morse twisted his lips into a dissatisfied grimace, thumbs tapping on the steering wheel. “It’s just a puzzle, is all.”

“Well, that’s right up your alley.”

A forked bolt of lightning lit up the grey sky in the distance, painting the far-off roofs in tones of black and white for an instant, followed shortly by rumbling thunder; Morse bent to look out the windscreen at the pouring rain and winced. 

“A day for paperwork, if ever I saw one,” said Thursday.

  
***

Paperwork there was, in abundance. The usual forms that were a constable’s bread and butter, plus work to bring two cases forward to court in a fortnight; Morse was expected to testify and spent some time reading over the case reports, then making sure the evidence was properly labelled and boxed. Outside the rain lashed itself against the windows, drumming against the panes of glass. The world beyond the glass was grey and sodden, streets flooded with the sudden deluge, water overrunning gutters to pour down onto the pavement below.

“About time to start thinking about an ark, eh matey?” said Strange, stopping at his desk as he went past with a cup of coffee, steam wafting invitingly into the air. 

“Just about – oh, Trewlove,” he paused as the blonde WPC appeared, a parcel in her hands. “Not _more_ flowers,” he said despairingly, staring at the parcel. 

“What? Oh, no, these are the photos from the Anderson Jewellery heist. Just back from the lab.” She put them down on his desk, squaring the corner carefully with the side of his desk. “Why? Have there been more?”

He shrugged, a nearly-careless gesture belayed by his eyes. “On my stoop. This morning.”

Strange raised his eyebrows. “She’s got your address then. Keen.”

“It wouldn’t be difficult; I’m in the directory,” protested Morse, shifting in his seat so that the chair gave a metallic creak. The pink tips of his ears were turning a darker fuchsia, a slow flush rising from his collar. “But why?” he continued, frowning. “Without even a note?”

“They might mean something,” said Trewlove; the two men turned to look at her. “There’s a language to flowers. My gran knew it all – she was hopelessly Victorian. I’m sure there are books on it…”

“A note would have been simpler,” replied Morse, running a hand through his hair. He looked out the window – the rain was still scything down. 

Strange leaned forward, smiling indulgently. “But where’s the fun in that? You love a puzzle, everyone knows that.” 

Morse gave him an unimpressed look. “Only the CID knows that. And I very much doubt it was someone here.” He gave a wry look around the room, at the men drinking tea and smoking at stained and scarred desks, their suits cheap and their shoes worn. Many had come up through the ranks, and were as stained and scarred as their desks. 

“No, not the flowers type,” agreed Trewlove, smiling. “Cheer up; you’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  
***

In the afternoon Strange and Morse ventured out to conduct interviews on the Anderson robbery. It was still pelting down, sky black overhead, some of the street corners ankle-deep in water.

“If this doesn’t let up we’ll be swimming home,” said Strange as they pulled up at the first fence. It was a run-down old brick storefront, window-frames eaten away by wormwood and the rows of brick closest to the ground almost black with grime. The windows were tarnished from decades of neglect, giving an impression of narrow darkness within.

The interior of the shop had plaster walls – once white, now yellowing with age and nicotine staining; in some places the leprous plaster had flaked off to reveal the wooden slats below. The narrow floorboards creaked under the weight of the detectives, raised nails scratching at their shoes. Near one of the two long glass-topped display cases someone had spilled whitewash on the floor sometime in the distant past; the stain spilled outwards in a vomitous mess. Both men unconsciously avoided treading on it. 

Perched behind the right-hand corner on a high stool was a small man with a fat body and thin, boney arms and legs, like an over-grown toad. “Mr Strange, fancy seeing you here,” he said, wide mouth quirking in a mercurial smile. “Come to buy a ring for your best girl?” he motioned to the spattering of rings, bracelets and necklaces displayed on moth-eaten velvet beneath the glass. “Best prices in town.” 

“Because they’re nicked, Stanley?”

“I’m wounded. You know I’d never flog anything I didn’t have a right to.”

Strange leant on the counter, peering down at the contents. “How about that silver last year? Family name still on the box and all. Fell off a truck, did it?”

“That was a genuine mistake,” protested the shop-owner. 

“Sure it was. And these?” He produced an itemized list from his pocket, slipping it over the glass. Stanley pulled a pair of grubby spectacles from his breast pocket and slipped them on, studying the list ostentatiously while he smacked his lips. 

“Ain’t seen none of these,” he opined at last. “Big, gaudy pieces like this aren’t up my alley.”

“Because they’re tougher to fence?” Strange took the list back and folded it up, returning it to his pocket. “You can put it about that we’re turning up the heat on this one. You don’t want to get caught holding the baby.”

“Like I said, Mr Strange, it’s the straight and narrow for me.” 

“Best keep it that way,” warned Strange. He gathered Morse with a look, and the two of them left the shop.

  
***

“Where to now?” asked Morse as they ducked back into the Jag. He already had the keys in his hand, was starting the engine even as Strange settled his large form onto the seat.

“Barry Fallon,” said Strange. Morse nodded once and pulled out into the street. 

Outside, it began to hail.

It started as one sudden ping on the windscreen. A moment later the world was white with balls of ice pounding down from the black clouds above, ricocheting off the hood and mirrors and the street. 

“Hells bells,” groaned Strange. “What next? Ruddy locusts?”

Barry Fallon’s tiny shop was only a few blocks away; they were there in minutes, while outside the hail continued to pound down. Morse swung out his door, opening his umbrella before he stepped out; it loomed above him like a black banner, the hail making soft scratching noises as it bounced off the fabric.

He’d only just stepped out of the car when he saw a man pause on his way out of the shop. He turned to look at Morse and Strange, stood there staring for a moment with a completely blank look on his face. Then he took off running down the street.

Morse dropped the umbrella and shot off after him, one arm raised ineffectively to ward off the stinging hail. Behind him he heard Strange cry out, but the two of them were already half a block away, and still speeding up. He tore along the pavement – thankfully empty due to the weather – in pursuit of the running figure ahead.

The ground was white with hail, the stones nearly the size of cherry pips. The fleeing man leapt off the edge of the pavement into the street, bounding over a wide puddle, and continuing onto the pavement on the far side. Morse followed, but as he leapt at the kerb his foot skidded heavily on the icy concrete. He flew forwards, arms flying up instinctively as he arched down towards the ground. He landed half in the puddle, water splashing everywhere, and skidded forward into the road where he lay, stunned.

It took Strange catching up with him to get him up. “Morse? You alright matey? That was some swan dive.” 

“I’m alright.” He sat up with a groan, saw a car trundling along towards him, and scrambled hastily to his feet. His left leg gave out abruptly and he faltered; Strange caught him and hauled him out of the way, back up onto the pavement. “Blast,” cursed Morse, limping. “Where is he? Dammit – I almost had him.” He limped in a sharp, violent circle, peering off into the now-receding hail. He was soaked from the waist down in dirty, icy water, his car coat flecked with it. He had hail in his hair and on his shoulders, looked for all the world as though he had been striding through a spring snowstorm. His palms were badly scraped, tiny droplets of blood leaking through the shredded skin.

“Calm down Morse, we’ll get him. For now we’d best get you to a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” spat Morse viciously, swiping out with his arm while still trying to pace. He was placing less and less weight on his foot as he went, limp becoming more serious. 

Strange gave him a flat look. “You’re limping like my Aunt Nancy’s terrier, and he only had three legs. Come on, let’s get you to hospital.”

  
***

There was a back-up in Casualty – two road collisions and a cyclist accident in the rain – so Strange escorted Morse down to pathology in the basement. The walls were painted institutional mint-green, the floor a speckled grey linoleum. The doors were wooden with inset windows looking into the laboratories and offices that lined the halls. All except the door to the mortuary; that was metal and windowless.

Strange went to the viewing window first, leaving Morse standing by the door, to ascertain that there were no corpses in the middle of autopsy; the lights were on but the metal gurney was empty. “All clear,” he said, and returned to help Morse hobble in. He left Morse seated on the gurney looking pale and pained, and hurried over to the anteroom that served as DeBryn’s office. 

“Doctor?” He knocked on the doorframe to DeBryn’s office; inside the small room DeBryn was seated at his desk, reading a typed page. He looked up at the knock, eyebrows rising.

“Strange. What can I do for you? It had better not be something outdoors,” the doctor warned, glancing at the window to his right. The rain was still beating down outside; from the half-basement’s vantage point the hospital’s sodden lawn and flooded car park were prominent. 

“It’s Morse, Doctor. Think he may have sprained his ankle. He took a bad fall chasing after a suspect.”

DeBryn gave a tsk and stood, reaching for his medical bag. “Sometimes I wonder why you employ a Police Surgeon at all,” he said, coming around the desk. 

“You were closer.”

“Yes, I can see how the ten minutes would have made a difference,” replied DeBryn, drily. 

Out in the main room DeBryn stopped at the sight of Morse sitting, dripping and shivering, on the gurney. There was already a pool of water forming on the floor, dribbling down towards the drain provided for spillover. 

“Strange said you took a fall, not that you went for a swim,” he exclaimed, coming over. Morse made a face. 

“It was just a small puddle,” he said, scowling. 

“And the Atlantic is just a little damp,” murmured the pathologist, setting his kit down on the gurney beside Morse. He took one look at Morse’s hands, resting facing each other on his legs, and reached out to turn them over. The bleeding hadn’t stopped, the white cuffs of Morse’s shirt now a muddy brown shot through with crimson. “That’ll need cleaning,” he said. “Strange; there’s a pan by the sink – fill it and bring it over, would you?”

“It’s nothing,” said Morse.

“It’s an infection risk, is what it is. Wash,” he instructed Morse when Strange came over with the filled metal pan; Morse dipped his hands in the water and washed the dirt and grit from his palms. When they were clean to the sight he withdrew them; DeBryn was holding a bottle of ethanol and some cotton swabs. He wet the swabs with the clear liquid and applied them to Morse’s cuts, “This will sting.”

Morse flinched away at the first application, then sat scowling in pain as DeBryn carefully cleaned the wounds. “If you promise to keep them clean, you can go without a bandage,” he said, looking carefully at Morse through his glasses.

Morse nodded.

“Good. Now, what’s this about a sprained ankle.”

“It hurts when I walk on it.” Morse drew his left leg up, catching his knee with inter-woven fingers and holding it high. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

“You mean you hope it’s not,” corrected DeBryn. He untied Morse’s shoe and carefully removed it, then his sock, and gently palpated the ankle. It was hugely swollen, an appalling bulbous shape. He rotated it slowly, Morse wincing but not crying out. DeBryn watched him closely, then finally nodded. He opened his bag and produced a roll of gauze, which he began to wrap around Morse’s ankle. 

“As luck would have it, I believe you’re correct. Just sprained, nothing broken. You’ll have to keep off of it. Bed-rest at first, then crutches. You need to be elevating it, and applying ice. Have Strange take you home and put your feet up; keep pressure on it as well. And for goodness’ sake put on some dry clothes,” he added, tying off the gauze. “The swelling should go down by tomorrow afternoon; after that you’ll need to be careful of it for some days. I can bring over some crutches for you this evening.”

Morse groaned.

“Or would you rather come fetch them yourself?” demanded the pathologist, reaffixing Morse’s shoe without the dampened sock.

Morse straightened, still looking miserable but now with a hint of contrition. “No. Thank you, doctor.”

“Very well then. Take him away from these halls of dazzling light,” said the pathologist, eyes now dancing with ironic wit. 

“Come on, Morse, easy does it.” Strange helped Morse down from the gurney, the latter hopping to regain his balance, leaning on the sergeant. “Let’s get you home.”

  
***

Morse changed out of his damp, dirty clothes as soon as he got home. He produced an ice-bag from the icebox, put Boccherini on the turntable, and settled into bed with the crossword. The bed was in the darkest corner of the flat, and he’d strung a naked bulb up to provide some light above it while a lamp stood at the foot near the wardrobe. The flat was deep and narrow like a rabbit burrow, with a sitting area at the front to take advantage of what second-hand light filtered in through the large window, the kitchen off to one side and the bed and wardrobe in the back against a solid wall.

He had been there nearly an hour, the end of the record coming up, when the buzzer rang. Slowly, wearily, he got up and limped across the small floorspace to the door. 

Trewlove was standing on the doorstep with a tall paper bag in hand. “Inspector Thursday sent me. He thought you could use some supplies – he seems to think all you have to eat here is bread and cheese,” she vouchsafed, as Morse stepped back. She winced to see him limp. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to get you up.”

“It’s alright. I needed to change the record anyhow,” he said with a smile, just as the concerto reached its fevered end. “Here, let me take that,” he said, gesturing to the bag in her arms. She handed it over and he went to the kitchen, laying it down on the small counter with a soft crumpling sound. He looked inside, and from the interior produced some sliced ham, a jar of meat spread, a jar of pickles, and two tomatoes. 

“I thought, since you already have bread…” she began, smiling.

“Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, no. Inspector Thursday gave me the money.” She looked around the flat curiously; Morse flushed. Here and there socks and ties and jumpers were lying about; books and newspapers were stacked higgledy-piggledy on all available surfaces; used glasses and cups abounded. 

“Squalid, isn’t it?” he said, self-deprecatingly. 

“A bit of a tip,” she agreed, good-naturedly. “I never really pictured you as the tidy type, though.”

“Glad to hear I meet expectations.” Morse put the meat and pickles in the fridge, then straightened. Trewlove was still holding something in her hands – a book. “What’s that?”

“Oh.” She held it out. “I picked it up for you. From the library. I thought… perhaps it would answer some questions.”

Morse took it from her and read the title. “ _The Language of Flowers_. All questions answered within?” he raised his eyebrows and flipped the book open, turning to the index at the back. “Orchid – peach, pink, purple…” he turned the pages backwards, settling on one and scanning it. Beneath the short lines of text was a grey etching of an orchid in bloom. “Purple Orchid: ‘I await you faithfully.’”

“Bold,” commented Trewlove, amused. “She may have to wait until that ankle heals up, though.”

Morse looked half-entertained and half-concerned. “But… why?”

“You’ve found yourself a secret admirer, looks like. Flowers, it’s a nice gesture – though a little feminine. You said she left them for you on your stoop – why don’t you leave a note yourself?”

“In this weather? It would be soup before anyone found it,” said Morse, looking out the half-basement’s windows. There was half an inch of standing water on the floor of his entranceway. 

“I’m sure you could think of something.”

“I don’t really know that it’s something I want to encourage. I’d prefer a knock on the door to a secret admirer.”

“They can be quite stubborn,” said Trewlove, sounding as though she were speaking from personal experience.

“As can I,” retorted Morse.


	3. Chapter 2

DeBryn’s arrival found Morse dressed in a blue cabled jumper and grey flannel trousers, feet bare as he stood in the doorway. From behind him came the soft sounds of Bach’s Cello Suite No 1, deep and moving. 

The rain had finally let up and a tiny sliver of sunshine was peeking through the clouds, turning the puddles on the street into bright mirrors. DeBryn was holding no umbrella, only a pair of wooden crutches with padding taped to the shoulder rest. “Give those a try,” he said, handing them over. Morse took them and tucked them under his arms, swinging around back into the flat.

In the crowded space, it proved difficult to manoeuver. There wasn’t room enough for both Morse and the spread of the crutches between the walls, table, chairs and bookcases. Morse hobbled around, awkwardly fighting to find a place to rest the crutches’ feet. DeBryn looked on contemplatively from the doorway.

“You’ll do better outdoors,” he said at last. “It will take some work to adjust to narrow spaces.”

“It’s only going to be for a couple of days,” protested Morse, looking up and pausing beside his table.

“It will be longer than that if you don’t take it seriously,” warned DeBryn. “Mind you keep off that foot. And continue applying ice until the swelling goes down. Inspector Thursday called me about a chitty to give to your Superintendent; I’m not qualified to be writing sick notes, so Dr Stern will be stopping by tomorrow.”

Morse made a face. “I don’t need to be on sick leave; I’m perfectly capable of –”

“Running down suspects? Driving? Carrying files while walking?” suggested DeBryn drily. 

Morse deflated, sinking down onto his crutches. 

“Cheer up, Morse. As you say, with proper care it will only be a few days. And I’m sure light duties could be arranged in a day or two. Something to suggest to Dr Stern.” He straightened, preparatory to leaving.

“Would you like to stay for a drink?” offered Morse.

“Thanks for the offer. But Bastet gets terribly cross if I don’t turn up promptly to let her in.”

“Your cat?” guessed Morse, eyebrows raised.

“A new addition,” agreed DeBryn. “So far it’s up in the air as to which of us will prove to be the pet and which the master.” He smiled. “Still, it’s pleasant to have someone to come home to.”

Morse’s eyes dropped to the book still sitting on the table, _The Language of Flowers_. “Yes,” he replied, absently. “I suppose it must be.”

  
***

Morse woke early with a pained frown on his face; he stretched his legs and rotated his ankle slowly, wincing, before letting it be. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling for some time before sitting up, casting aside the blankets. He looked momentarily at the crutches leant up against the wall by his bedside, then stood without them and limped over to the front door. Outside the paper had come; he bent to scoop it up, then closed the door against the early-morning mist and made his way to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

It had become his habit to take his tea with plenty of milk in the mornings; it allowed him to gulp it down faster on his way out the door, half-finished toast in hand as he hurried out to catch the bus. 

Morse poured out the milk into his cup, then when it was ready added the boiling water and tea. He took the steaming cup over to the table with him and set in on the paper, breathing in the fragrant scent. 

He got most of the way through the news section and finished his tea before he stirred. He washed and shaved at the sink under a square mirror that was chipping in one corner, then changed into the same flannel trousers as yesterday, along with a different shirt and a lighter jumper. He fished the crutches out and performed a slow circuit of his flat, picking up the clothes and other objects that were strewn about and tidying them away, returning the used dishes and glasses to the sink. He had just filled the sink with hot water and washing fluid, leaning over it perched precariously on the crutches, when the doorbell rang. 

Morse answered the door to find Stern there, a tall gaunt figure with prematurely white hair and eyes the colour of a stormy sea. He had the habit of speaking in short, gruff sentences, and rarely displayed emotion on his thin face. He was holding a damp paper packet in his hands. 

“Found this on your stoop,” he said, coming in and putting it down on the table. “What’s wrong?” he added, seeing Morse’s suddenly tense face. 

Morse looked up, face smoothing, and shook his head. “Nothing.”

There passed a short medical interview, Morse sitting on his bed and allowing the doctor to unwrap and inspect his ankle. He tutted at the still-present swelling. “More ice,” he said, before re-wrapping it. “Does it hurt?”

“It woke me this morning. But it’s not bad if I’m occupied.”

Stern nodded. “If you find it’s keeping you from sleeping, give me a call. I’ll prescribe you something. Otherwise keep off it – the more you rest it, the sooner you’ll be back on duty.”

“Dr DeBryn suggested I could take up light duties.”

“Not ‘til that swelling comes down. Give it a day or two. I’ll sign off on sick leave for now, with light duties to come. Anything else?”

Morse shook his head. His eyes drifted back to the parcel on his table. “Well-wisher?” enquired Stern. Morse frowned, but slit the end of the parcel open. From inside he produced a thick sprig of energetic orange blossoms in the shape of square trumpets, soft petals freckled with darker spots. They were damp, lay moist and cool in his palm. 

“Azaleas,” pronounced Stern. “Odd flowers to send. Grow them in the garden as filler myself. Still, they’re cheery,” he added, a trifle doubtfully. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“Yes,” said Morse, and ushered the physician out. When he had gone, Morse turned back to the table and opened the book still sitting on it. He flipped to the index, then forward to the appropriate page. There were a few short lines of text, with an image of a sprig of azalea flowers beneath. 

“‘Azalea,’” he read, “‘Take care of yourself for me.’”

He wrapped them back up in the butcher’s paper, and threw them in the rubbish.

  
***

Morse spent the day inside. He did the crossword, listened to his records, read a book on Cavalier poetry. He made the bed and lay on it, foot raised on a cushion from the easy chair and ankle covered with the renewed ice bag. He idly examined the front of _The Language of Flowers_ , checking the library slip in it, but the last time it had been taken out was over two years ago.

Thursday came by at lunch time with newspaper-wrapped packets of fish and chips, smelling strongly of oil and batter and fish. He fetched plates down following Morse’s directions, as well as two bottles of Radford’s from the fridge and a bottle of vinegar. 

“Dr Stern said you were keen to get back on light duties,” said Thursday, drabbling vinegar on his slice of fish. “Not that I’m surprised; I knew you’d be chomping at the bit.”

“He won’t sign off until the swelling goes down,” reported Morse, irritably, drinking from his bottle. “What difference does it make, if I stay off it?”

Thursday frowned at him over the top of a piece of fish. “Don’t you go pushing your boundaries; remember what happened with that hip of yours. We don’t want you shipped off to County again. Mr Bright has agreed that you can come back on light duties, so long as it’s for less than a fortnight. Which means you need to rest up good and proper before you come back.” 

“I’ve been doing nothing else,” said Morse, flatly. “It’s –”

“Restful?” suggested Thursday, eyebrows raised warningly. 

“Tedious,” replied Morse, but with a flicker of amusement now. He took a chip up and popped it in his mouth, then another. 

“If you make me a list, I can fetch you some books. Better still, I could stop by at the end of the day and run you over to the library.”

Morse paused, hand outstretched to pick up another chip. “I don’t want to be a burden…”

“And I don’t want you aggravating that injury. This way we both get what we want. Fair?”

Morse smiled. “Fair.”

  
***

Morse spent the afternoon reading in his easy chair with his foot propped up on one of the wooden chairs from the table set, all the lamps in his tiny flat burning and still leaving the space shadowed and dull. His one window faced west, but the buildings opposite were tall enough and the stairwell leading down to his door deep enough that he received no direct light, even in the afternoon as the sun was setting. This deficit was reflected in the low rent price.

The buzzer rang just past five; he got to his feet and took up the canvas satchel he’d dug out of the bottom of his wardrobe, slinging it over his shoulder as he slipped on his shoes for the first time that day. He opened the door while he bent down to tie the laces, crutches propped up against the wall. 

“Ready to be rescued from your tedium?” asked Thursday, humour in his voice.

“More than ready,” replied Morse. He stood and followed Thursday out, locking the door behind him. Taking the stairs with crutches for the first time was a slow, awkward pursuit. Thursday waited patiently while Morse struggled up the stairs. 

“The swelling’s gone down,” panted Morse as he swung himself up to the top of the stairs. “I could come back tomorrow. Light duties,” he said, in a compromising tone.

Thursday gave him a doubtful look. “Let’s give it another day.”

  
***

His second day off found Morse indoors once more, in his bed with ice occasionally on his ankle, and a stack of books on his bedside table. Interspaced with reading he made himself tea and toast, then a ham sandwich for lunch, and finally a thick meat paste sandwich for dinner with slices of tomato and pickle. The juice dribbled down his forearms as he ate, trailing over his healing palms to run down inside his shirtsleeves.

When he went to the door that evening to put out the empty milk bottle, he found another parcel on the stoop. He stared down at it for a moment, unmoving, then looked up sharply. The street was dark, the occasional car parked beside the pavement looming in the still shadows. He stayed still, staring into the inky blackness, for nearly a minute before slowly bending and picking up the parcel, closing and locking the door behind him.

He reached inside and drew his hand out with a dozen flower heads on his scrapped palm. Frowning, he turned the bag upside-down over the table; several more tumbled out. They were a clear yellow, the colour of fresh butter out of the churn, and sat joyful and vibrant on the table.

Morse reached out his hand and picked up the book with an air of tired deliberateness. This time he leafed through slowly, comparing the flowers on the pages to the ones littering his table. Eventually he came to a stop at Primrose: “‘I can’t live without you.’”

He stood still for several moments, staring down in dismay at the blossoms. Finally he swept them back into the package they had come from. This time, though, instead of throwing it in the rubbish he put it up on the mantelpiece. 

Then he went to the front window and drew the blinds down with sudden violence.

  
***

Morse rose with his alarm-clock the next morning – Friday. He pushed off his blankets and got to his feet, this time using the crutches to help himself along. He hurried across the room to the kitchen, started the kettle and popped a piece of bread in the toaster, then returned to his sink to wash his face and shave. He was dressed by the time the kettle had finished boiling; he went to the fridge, only to find there was no milk.

Cursing to himself he went to the door and opened it, finding both the bottle of milk and his morning paper there. There was no brown parcel. His face smoothed, shoulders relaxing. 

Calmer, he closed the door and returned to the kitchen to make his tea and toast. He dropped in the tea, added a generous splash of milk and poured in the hot water, then let it steep while he slathered a piece of toast in black current jam. He set his crutches aside for the short journey back to the table, where he unfolded the paper and began consuming his breakfast in his usual hurried manner. 

Halfway through his meal, he began to slow down. He reached out to turn a page of the paper and his fingers struggled to find the edge, scrapping weakly at it for a moment before he managed to grasp it. 

A few moments later he dropped his piece of toast on the table. He stared down quizzically at it before slowly reaching out; he grasped at thin air, toast remaining stubbornly on the table. 

Looking around the room with wide, unfocused eyes, Morse pushed himself to his feet. He overturned his chair and stumbled out towards the phone, hand outstretched to guide himself along the wall. His gait was unsteady, faltering. 

Halfway there he stopped. He leant shakily up against the wall, resting his forehead against the cool wallpaper. Then, slowly, inexorably, he began to slide downwards. He finished up in a heap on the floor, slipping over to lie on his side, head resting on the wooden floorboards. 

As his eyes slid closed, the front door began to swing open.

  
***

Morse woke slowly. His fingers twitched first, his breathing deepening. Finally his eyes opened, peering narrowly as if into a bright light. His pupils were wide and black, deep as pools of ink gated round by a thin line of blue.

He was lying in bed, in his own narrow bed, flat on his back in the hollow that had been beaten into the mattress by years of sleepers. 

Sitting beside him on the mattress was a small, mousy man – tawny brown hair, brown eyes, narrow nose. For an instant Morse stared up at him with a vaguely puzzled expression. Then fear tipped the scales and he flinched away, jackknifing backwards until he hit the wall. He tried to sit up; his elbow slipped uncooperatively out from under him, his coordination shot. 

“Who – what?” he slurred, managing finally to wrestle his arms up to wave protectively in front of him, blinking desperately in the stark light of the overhead bulb. 

“It’s alright,” said Edgar Rundle, leaning forward with a disarming smile. “It’s just me. It’ll all be alright now. You’ll see. I’m here to look after you.”

Morse swallowed thickly. “What – have – you – done?” he pronounced each word deliberately, struggling for precision and clarity. He tried to sit up again, head drooping to the side, arms refusing to hold his weight. He collapsed back onto the mattress, springs jingling quietly. 

“I had to stop you going in. It’s far too dangerous for you; you might get hurt again. Or worse. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen. This way’s much better: don’t worry, you’ll be yourself in no time. I’ll take you home with me and look after you – I’m terribly good at looking after people, you know.”

“Rundle,” pronounced Morse, suddenly. “Your mother…”

“I knew you would know me!” Rundle smiled brightly, leaning forward to clap a hand over Morse’s shoulder; Morse flinched away. “You’ve always been so kind to me. I had to repay that favour. I have to have someone to look after, now that mother’s gone. You deserve it.” 

Across the flat, the phone suddenly started to ring. Rundle straightened, turning to look at it. He didn’t rise. 

“I should answer,” suggested Morse. He put one unsteady hand on the wall, preparatory to trying to lift himself again. Rundle turned and pushed it back down. 

“You need your rest,” said Rundle, shaking his head. “Never mind about that. As soon as you’re on your feet I’ll take you home – I’ve fixed up your room, much nicer than this dank place. It’s light and airy, with proper windows and a nice set of furniture, and dozens of Classical records. It’s ready and waiting for you.” 

The phone rang twice more, then fell silent. 

“Did you like the flowers? You kept these ones, I see. That’s good; I knew you would like them.” He rose and walked over to the mantelpiece to pick up the parcel sitting there. 

While his back was turned Morse managed finally to sit up, panting with the effort. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand. He managed one step before collapsing, legs giving out under him and dumping him onto the floor. 

Rundle turned, making a sound of dismay. “I told you you needed to rest,” he said, hurrying back and dropping down beside Morse, reaching out to him. 

“What’ve you done to me?” demanded Morse, pulling away. His hair was a wild mess, his fingers scraping against the floorboards. 

“Just a mixture of Mother’s sleeping draughts; she found them very restful.” Rundle produced a half-full syringe from his pocket with a bit of cork on the end of the needle. “It was awfully easy to put it in your milk, just one quick poke through the foil. I told you: police work is too dangerous for you. This way is better, much better.”

Morse eyed the syringe nervously as he fought to push himself up. His hands found purchase on the wooden floor but his arms were trembling badly, like aspens in a storm. 

“I like my work,” he said, resting his back again the side of the bed. “I help people – people like you.”

“That’s very selfless. But you’re just doing it because you don’t know any better; you don’t know what it’s like to have all your wants and needs looked after. You’ll like that much better.”

Morse stared back at him, eyes still over-dilated, skin grey. In just his shirtsleeves, tie not yet on, he looked dishevelled and vulnerable. 

“That’s… very considerate of you,” said Morse with forced politeness, eyes slipping now and then to the syringe, “but I’d rather stay here. I have to go in to work… my colleagues will be concerned if I don’t.”

Rundle frowned. “Never mind about them. They’ve no claim on you.” 

Morse raised a hand to his head, fingers tracing along his forehead with a kind of pained desperation. “They’ll worry about me. They’ll come looking for me. You should go.”

“I knew you cared. See – that’s why we’re perfect for one another. That’s why you’ll come with me.”

“I can’t,” said Morse, holding out a shaky hand. “Look; I can’t walk.”

“You can if I help you.” Rundle slipped the cork top off the syringe; Morse pressed backwards against the bed, shoulder blades scything through his shirt, head reared back.

“Rundle – Edgar – don’t. That won’t help.”

“This?” He held up the syringe. “This is just in case you can’t walk.”

Morse looked up into Rundle’s face, his own cast in shadow by the bright bulb behind him. “I can walk.” He reached up to prop his elbow on the bed, began levering himself up. “Hand me the crutches.” 

Rundle picked them up and handed them over, their shadow long and narrow on the floor. Morse took them and raised himself to his feet unsteadily, supporting his weight on them. 

Rundle smiled. “Great – I knew you –” 

Still leaning on the left-hand crutch, Morse shifted his weight further to that side and brought the right crutch up and around sharply, directly at Rundle’s head. Despite the element of surprise, the crutch was moving slowly enough that Rundle ducked it and Morse spun himself off balance, toppling over onto his bad foot, then spilling forward onto the floor.

“I already told you; there’s nothing to worry about,” said Rundle, sounding petulant. He came over and kicked Morse’s crutch away; it clattered across the floor and struck a table leg. He bent down, syringe in hand. “This just means I’ll have to bring you home myself.”

“Don’t – Edgar – don’t. You’re kidnapping a police officer; they’ll find you, and –”

“It’s not kidnap,” rejected Rundle, affronted. “It’s for your own good.” He knelt down and grabbed Morse’s arm; Morse jerked away, scrambling backwards until he hit the bookshelf. He tried to rise; this time he couldn’t muster the strength and slumped back down, head pillowing on his elbow. His eyes were wide with fear, breath coming quickly and unevenly. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you,” promised Rundle. He grabbed Morse, this time successfully holding onto his arm through Morse’s weak struggles, and inserted the syringe.

At that moment, a knock came on the door. 

Morse raised his head, mouth opening to call out. 

“Quiet,” hissed Rundle, withdrawing the syringe without depressing the plunger and looking up. 

“Morse?” called a voice from the other side – Thursday’s voice. “You home? Morse?”

For a moment the two men stayed frozen, the flat silent around them. Then Morse stuck out at Rundle, pushing the syringe away and crying out: “Sir! Help! Fred!”

Rundle turned, face twisted into a furious paroxysm, and jabbed downwards with the syringe just as on the other side of the room the door burst open and Fred Thursday bounded in. 

“Oi – you! Drop it. _Drop it_ ,” he ordered, leaping across the room and grabbing Rundle by the shoulders, yanking him forcibly away from Morse. The syringe dropped onto the floor and rolled away. Thursday wrestled Rundle away, slamming him face-down on the table and pinning him there. “Morse – you alright?” he called over his shoulder.

Lying on his side on the ground, Morse let his head slip down to rest on his arm, eyes sliding closed. “More or less,” he managed. “He knocked me out. Still feel woozy.”

“Alright; I’ll see to him. You stay there.” Thursday cuffed Rundle’s hands behind his back then yanked him up and frog-marched him out of the flat.

For a few moments there was nothing but silence, Morse slipping down the scale of consciousness as he lay on the floor, head pillowed on his arm. 

Thursday returned quietly, letting himself back in and padding across the floor to kneel down beside Morse, putting a hand on his arm. Morse startled backwards so hard some of the books on the bookshelf behind him flopped over, eyes suddenly huge and terrified. 

“Easy, there, Morse. Easy. It’s just me.” Thursday drew back, hands raised reassuringly. 

“He said the same thing,” replied Morse after a moment, letting out his breath and relaxing. Thursday helped him sit up, a hand on his elbow that he left there after Morse had straightened, a physical reassurance. “As though we were friends – had known each other for years. He was determined to take care of me – coop me up and ‘keep me safe.’ He thought he was helping. He must have been living alone with that old woman for decades.” Morse shook his head, raised a shaky hand to press against the bridge of his nose.

“He’ll get a psychiatric evaluation,” said Thursday. “And you’ll get a visit from Stern,” he added. He let go of Morse and stooped to pick up the syringe carefully so as to avoid living fingerprints, put it safely on the table. “Any idea what’s in there?”

“Some mix of his mother’s sleeping pills. He put it in the milk. Knocked me out for... what time is it?” enquired Morse, hand slipping up to card through his hair. It stood roughed up on end after he had pulled his fingers through it, giving him the look of an irate owlet. 

“Half-nine,” replied Thursday. 

“Nearly two hours.”

“Strong stuff. Just as well he didn’t get you with it directly.”

Morse swallowed. “Yes. I think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this because of a line in one of the Agatha Christie short stories, in which purple orchids are said to mean "I await your favours." I ended up changing that due to the different direction this took. 
> 
> Just a short epilogue to go.


	4. Epilogue

By the time the police surgeon arrived, Morse was back in bed being hovered over by Thursday. Upon learning of the constable’s drugging by Rundle the doctor insisted on bundling him off to hospital.

“But I’m fine now,” protested Morse, as Thursday and Stern got him up between them, Morse swaying in their dual grasp.

“You’re still under the influence,” said the doctor, “and if nothing else we’ll need blood results for the court case. Best for all concerned to get you checked out properly this time.”

“He’s taken a bad fall on that ankle again,” added Thursday, earning a black glare from Morse. Together the three of them crossed the room and climbed the stairs to the street, Morse hobbling along in the middle. They tucked him into the back of Stern’s Rover 80, Thursday standing by him while the doctor went round to the front door.

“I’ll see to things here, then meet you at the hospital. If you’re to be let out today I can bring you home. If not I’ll bring around some of your things.” He closed the door before Morse could protest.

  
***

In fact it was Trewlove who came around an hour later, with Morse’s crutches and a small box.

“Congratulations on your speedy discharge,” she said, leaning up casually against the wall while Morse, sitting on the side of a bed, tied his shoes.

“Just a few routine test. Some jabs and an x-ray. No reason to keep me here, as I told them.” 

“Inspector Thursday’s tied up with Rundle – he’s had a bit of a collapse. They’re bringing in a psychiatrist to look at him. Thursday sent me to take you home instead. You’re not to come in until Monday,” she said, with the air of one parroting instructions faithfully. 

Morse nodded, taking the crutches from her. “What’s that?” he asked, eyeing the box. 

“Oh. For you.” She handed it over. He opened it carefully to reveal a neatly packed assortment of chocolates. “I thought you’d probably prefer it to flowers.” 

Morse gave her just the tiniest hint of a smile. “Thank you.”

END


End file.
